


the turning

by birdjay



Series: Blood & Teeth [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Blood, Blood Drinking, Blood Loss, Bucky Barnes is a vampire, M/M, POV Steve Rogers, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Protective Bucky Barnes, Spooktober 2019, Steve Rogers is Not Captain America, Vampire Turning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-01
Packaged: 2020-11-09 11:22:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20852612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/birdjay/pseuds/birdjay
Summary: “I’m two hundred and sixty three years old,” Bucky says, on a breath. He closes his eyes, and keeps talking. “I don’t have to breathe, I don’t have to sleep, and my heart doesn’t beat. I don’t get sick, nor do I age.” Bucky opens his eyes, and they meet Steve’s hard enough to pin him to his seat. “What do you think I am?”Steve’s mind is reeling. He knows what it sounds like Bucky is, but...but it can’t be true. Such creatures do not exist. Have never existed. They are simply not possible.“Go ahead,” Bucky says, with the air of someone who has all day, and doesn’t mind waiting. “I know you know.”





	the turning

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by the lovely [deisderium](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deisderium). I love her to pieces, and you should, too. 
> 
> This is my first Spooktober Fic for 2019, a sequel to this one will be posted in a week or two. The prompt for this particular fic was: TEETH. I wrote this whole thing without using the word 'vampire' once, which I am insanely proud of. I'm not too sure what else I should have tagged for, so if you see something I need to add PLEASE let me know.

Steve knows he’s being watched. 

What he doesn’t know is _ why_. 

It’s not like he’s particularly interesting -- most people’s eyes just bounce right over him, like he’s not even there. A complete non-entity of a person, if anything. Steve doesn’t blame them. He’s a solid five feet six, and a hundred and fourteen pounds, but only on a good day. His clothes are all thrifted, rips sewn and holes patched all by hand. His hair is stringy, thin, and it’s been much too long since he last got it cut. Not to mention he’s got a chronic phlemgy cough that makes him sound like he’s dying from some terrible disease.

No, Steve’s not anybody anyone wants to get close to. Never has been. Tonight, though, at this shitty out-of-the-way diner, someone is watching him with a singular focus.

He hunches his shoulders at the feeling, trying to shake it off as he pulls out a handful of loose change from his backpack. There’s two sad, crumpled dollar bills already on the table. He still owes another $1.50 for the cheap, slightly-burnt coffee, but he might just have enough. Steve sets three quarters down on the table, and then picks out the appropriate amount of dimes and nickels. It’s a depressing stack of dirty change, but no matter what anyone says -- it’s still money.

Leaning back against the booth, Steve smiles as the waitress comes over to refill his mug. She leans over the table to pour coffee for him, a friendly look on her face. Steve tries not to notice her -- she’s been so very kind to him this evening. Refilling his mug, and even bringing him a slice of free pie, claiming it was going to be thrown out that night anyway. She’s got blonde hair gone slightly silver with grey, held back in a tight braid, wrinkles and laugh lines throw her face into a harsh relief. It hurts too much to look at her. 

She’s a reminder of what his mother could have had, had cancer not ripped her away from her potential. A reminder of what _ he _ could have had, if his mother had lived longer than her 38 years. 

Ah, but it’s no use, wishing for something like that. There’s nothing he can do about it. 

She pauses slightly, hovering by the end of the table. Steve uses this moment to quickly read her nametag, feeling bad that he hasn’t noticed it all night -- Colleen. Her name’s Colleen. Steve commits it to memory. Blinking, she looks over her shoulder at the counter and then back at Steve before saying, “Sugar, your bill’s been taken care of.”

Steve looks at the very small pile of money he accumulated to pay her with, and then back up at Colleen’s face. “My bill?”

She nods, cheap red lipstick cracking slightly on her lips. “That young man back there paid for you. Isn’t that nice?”

Steve nods absently, as he tries to see around her. There’s a man at the bar, but he’s not quite sure he’d use the word ‘nice’ to describe him. Whoever he is, he’s tall, all crumpled up to perch on the pleather bar stool. He’s wearing a bespoke suit -- there’s no way anything off the rack would fit him properly. Steve is watching when the man turns, revealing cheekbones that could cut glass, and wide, wide shoulders. The man blinks, and for a split second, their eyes meet.

Steve’s mouth goes dry.

This man is, quite simply, the most attractive person Steve has ever seen in his entire life. Whoever this guy is, he’s got a classic movie star look, complete with the slicked back hair and ice-blue eyes. There’s a chance he could actually _ be _ an actor, but if that were the case, Steve might have seen that face before. There’s not a chance in hell he wouldn’t have remembered it.

Steve finds himself standing, without even thinking about it, and moving around Colleen-the-waitress. His feet bring him right up next to the generous man who’d paid for his coffee.

“You,” Steve says, struggling to force the word out of his dry throat.

“Me,” the man agrees, a hint of a smile playing about his full lips. Amusement honest-to-god twinkles in his eyes. Steve is torn -- does he hate this man, or does he want to throw himself into his lap and beg to him to have his way with him? No one has a right to look this good, this late at night, because Steve just caught sight of the Coca-Cola clock above the counter. It’s about to hit one in the morning. 

He’s been here for five goddamn hours, working on his portfolio sketches.

Steve pushes that thought away, and returns his focus to the man in front of him. Now that he’s closer, Steve can see this guy has but one tiny flaw. He’s too pale -- like he hasn’t seen the sun in months kind of pale. Faint purple circles hide under his eyes. 

“You didn’t have to pay for me. I had the right amount…” Steve says, prickly anger bubbling up under his skin. He doesn’t need anyone’s help. He’s doing just fine on his own, even if he has to count pennies to buy himself coffee.

Mystery man’s eyebrows fly up towards his hairline, and he says, “You know, most people just say thank you.”

Steve glowers at him. “I’m not most people.”

“I can see that,” Mystery man says, with a slight smirk. He pauses, and turns fully on the stool to appraise Steve. “So what do you do to barely afford shitty diner coffee?”

Steve opens his mouth to tell him to fuck off, that he doesn’t owe him shit, but finds that the words die in his throat. There’s something about the way this man is looking at him that makes Steve feel _ seen _ in a way that he never has before. 

“I’m a student,” he says, slightly wary. He’s also a cashier for one day a week at the tiny comic book store a block away from his apartment, but Steve doesn’t say that. It’s not important. 

The man nods, like he expected that answer, and then shifts some more, like he’s uncomfortable. Steve can’t blame him -- it’s got to be hard to sit on a stool made for someone about three times smaller than you. “And you study…? Oh! I’m so sorry, I’ve forgotten my manners,” the man says, shaking himself slightly. He holds out a hand towards Steve. “I’m Bucky Barnes.”

Steve takes Bucky’s (what kind of name is _ Bucky? _) hand in his own, and shakes it twice before letting it go. “Steve Rogers,” he answers, with another quick glance up at Bucky’s eyes. They are startlingly clear, a blue so light it’s almost colorless. He stares for a moment before realizing exactly what he’s doing, and glances away, down at himself. 

There’s a lull in the conversation, so mostly under his breath, Steve says, “You have cold hands.”

“Always have. Bad circulation,” Bucky answers, almost too quickly. He sets his hands in his own lap, like he’s keeping them out of the way. “So, Steve, why are you so pissed about me paying for your coffee?”

Steve huffs out a frustrated sigh. How does he explain it to a complete stranger without sounding like a crazy person? And why does he cares so much about what this stranger, albeit a very attractive stranger, thinks of him? He doesn’t normally give two shits what anyone thinks of him. 

“I don’t like handouts.”

“Why?”

It’s a simple question, and surprisingly, there’s no judgement behind it. Bucky, whoever he is, just wants to know the reason.

Steve waffles with his answer for a few minutes, chewing on his bottom lip the entire time. Finally, he manages to complete an actual sentence. “Because. I’ve had enough of them over my life. I don’t like...owing people.” 

Bucky moves around, setting his elbow on the counter, and his chin in the palm of his hand as he looks at Steve like he’s fascinating. “Who said you owed me anything? Maybe I was being kind, doing a little good deed. I have the money for it.”

Steve narrows his eyes at him. If his clothing is any indication of his actual wealth, Bucky could have bought everyone in the diner their dinner, dessert and then some without even blinking an eye. “Everyone wants something. No one’s ever just _ nice_.”

“Maybe I am.”

“Doubtful,” Steve says, with a half-hearted shrug. “But thanks, anyway, I guess.” He turns without another thought, and goes back to his table to gather his things. It doesn’t take long. Steve shoves his beanie onto his head, slips his ratty jacket on over his too-big sweatshirt, and pulls his backpack up onto his shoulder. The door to the diner rings as he leaves.

It’s the end of October and the weather is starting to take a turn for the worse. Sometime in the last five hours, the skies must have opened up. Rain pours from the dark sky above, making the pavement glitter in the streetlights. Steve stands under the awning of the diner for a moment, sighing. 

He lives three blocks away. It’s not far, but it’s October, and it’s raining and it’s _ maybe _ thirty-four degrees out. If Steve takes so much as a step into the rain, he’s doomed to pneumonia, _ again _ , for at least a month, but it’s not like he has any other options. He doesn’t own an umbrella, and he _ definitely _ doesn’t have enough money for a taxi. 

Steve lets his head loll back as he sighs once more. 

The door to the diner opens behind him, and Steve shuffles out of the way so the person can pass. Only...they don’t. 

“Need a ride?” Bucky says, a moment later, in a decidedly smarmy voice. He smirks at Steve, adjusting the cuffs on his extremely-expensive looking shirt. It’s eye-wateringly white, with small red-orange checks. It looks like it was _ made _ for Bucky, the way it fits him. Hell, it probably was.

“Not from you,” Steve says, immediately. There’s something about Bucky that sets Steve on edge. At first, Steve just thought it was the feeling of being in such grossly different wealth classes, but now, now he’s not sure. It takes him a second, but then he realizes that the feeling of being watched? That very distinct prey-animal feeling at the back of his neck? It hasn’t gone away, it’s there, lingering. His hair stands on end.

Steve goes still, and turns his head just enough to look at Bucky from the corner of his eye.

“Oh, come now,” Bucky pleads. “I’ll drive you home?”

“No, thanks. I’ll walk.”

“In the rain, Steve?”

“Yeah, in the rain.” Steve takes a step forward to do just that, to get away from this very insistent man who is pushing all of Steve’s warning buttons. He’s learned, over the course of his 22 years of life, to never ignore a feeling in his gut. Right now, his gut is telling him to _ get away _ from Bucky. 

“Let me help you,” Bucky says, voice a little gruffer. “I’ve been watching you.”

“Well _ stop_ ,” Steve says, turning to glare at Bucky. God, he _ hates _ people like this. People who just take or do what they want, no matter what anyone else needs or wants. He’s so fucking tired of it.

“You’re poor, aren’t you? Like, almost destitute. You wear hand-me-downs or secondhand clothes, right?” Bucky asks, but doesn’t wait for an answer. He follows Steve down a step. “And you get sick real easy, too, don’t you? I heard you coughing in there. Or maybe you have something permanent wrong with your lungs, to match your wonky heart.”

Steve’s glare turns murderous. Worry zips up his spine, to settle right at the base of his skull. “How do you know about my heart?”

Bucky shrugs, like it’s obvious as the nose on Steve’s face. “You’re pale, but with pretty pink cheeks. Your hands shake, too, like your pulse is too quick.”

“And you’re a doctor, are you? That you know that?” Steve asks, already knowing the answer. Whatever Bucky is, he’s not in the medical field. He’s as likely a doctor as Steve is going to find a thousand dollars under his pillow tomorrow morning.

“Something like that,” Bucky replies, which is not an answer at all.

“No, you’re not,” Steve says, certain.

Bucky rolls his eyes, and then sighs like he’s frustrated. “Alright fine, I’m not, but I _ can _ help you.”

“Why?” Steve asks, already tired of arguing with this man. He wants to go home. He wants to be asleep, warm in his bed. But if he leaves, Steve’ll get soaked within thirty seconds of walking, and if he goes into his drafty apartment all wet, it’ll take hours before he really feels properly warm again. It’s a real shit situation all around. 

Turning back to face the sidewalk, Steve tilts his face up towards the sky. Has the rain lightened up at all in the past five minutes? He squints at the darkness, trying to figure it out.

“Why do I want to help you, you mean?” Bucky asks, shifting slightly behind Steve.

Steve nods, still staring out at the street. He’s like 90% sure the rain has somehow started to come down even harder. It’s now splashing up from the pavement to dot against Steve’s knock-off Converse sneakers. _ Great _.

“Because you seem like you need it. And you seem kind,” Bucky answers, and damn if that isn’t the first true thing out of his mouth all night. Steve turns, wondering where the hell this guy came from. Where do seemingly generous men come from? And how do they end up in the same cheap 24 hour diner as Steve?

“I don’t need help,” Steve says, in a rush. He doesn’t mention the outstanding bills, his empty fridge, or the prescriptions he hasn’t been filling due to the cost. Staying alive in a world that doesn’t care about you is incredibly expensive.

“Yes, you do.”

“I’m doing fine on my own.”

“But you don’t _ have _ to do it on your own, Steve,” Bucky answers, with a sigh. He runs a large hand over his face, and scrubs at his eyes. Bucky lets it fall back to his side before saying, “Would you at least _ listen _to what I have to say? About how I can help? It might not be quite what you expect.”

“If I listen to you, and still don’t want your help afterwards, will you leave me alone?” Steve asks, tired. 

“I promise.”

“_Fine_,” Steve says, letting all his fight drain out of him in a rough breath. If he gets murdered, at least he won’t be responsible for the clean up cost.

Bucky smiles at him, but it’s a little sharp around the edges for Steve’s tastes. It does, however, light his face up rather nicely. Steve looks at him, and raises both eyebrows. What a confusing man this Bucky is.

“Follow me,” Bucky says, producing an umbrella from seemingly nowhere. He steps past Steve and opens it towards the sky. It blocks out the rain completely in a huge circle underneath. Steve descends the few steps to the sidewalk, and moves until he’s beside Bucky, under the umbrella.

“Where are we going?” Steve asks, as they start to walk. He’s not going across town with this guy, no matter what he promises. Doesn’t matter how handsome he is, or how helpful he claims to be. Sarah Rogers didn’t raise a goddamn idiot.

“To my car. It’s just here,” Bucky says, pointing towards something sleek, shiny, and black. It probably costs more than Steve’s entire net worth. Hell, it probably costs more than the amount he owes and his net worth _ combined _. Whatever it is, it’s long and low to the ground. Steve’s mildly afraid to touch it, in fear of setting off some unseen burglar alarm.

“Nice car,” Steve mumbles, because he might know absolutely nothing about cars or vehicles in general, but it was easy enough to see that this one was high-end. He could also admit that the car was rather pretty, if you were into that sort of design at all.

“Thanks,” Bucky answers, flashing a smile in the dim light of the streetlamps. “It should be open, go ahead and get in.”

Steve gives him a lingering, suspicious look, but moves to open the passenger-side door. It opens on a soft hinge, with a tiny electronic-tinkling noise from inside. Warm light blooms on, revealing a pristine interior. The only hint that someone might actually own and drive the car is a long white wire leading to a USB port, and a BLACK ICE scented air freshener hanging from the rear view mirror. Steve stares for a moment before sliding himself into the cushioned seat.

On the other side of the car, Bucky closes the umbrella in one smooth movement. Steve marvels for a moment -- who on earth can close an umbrella without waging war on the damn thing for five minutes? Bucky opens the door, and tosses the thing in the back before folding himself into the driver’s seat. He fiddles with a few knobs, and then turns just slightly, to smile at Steve.

“There. This is more comfortable, isn’t it?”

Steve nods, albeit begrudgingly. “Better than being out in the rain, yeah.”

“Thought so,” Bucky says, with another too-sharp smile. “Now…”

“Now,” Steve echoes, raising both eyebrows. “What exactly do you want?”

“To turn you,” Bucky says, like this is an obvious answer to that question, and that Steve should already know what he’s asking. Steve does not, and it must show on his face, because Bucky lets out another deep, long-suffering sigh. “You have no idea what I mean, huh?” 

Steve shakes his head, looking more and more confused as each minute passes.

Bucky smiles, but goes quiet for a second. Steve watches him, wondering if he can still leave and not get straight up murdered. “Let me start over, yeah?”

Steve shrugs -- what does he care? “Go ahead.”

Bucky leans back into his seat and stares straight ahead over the steering wheel. He takes a deep breath and then slowly forms a question. “How old do you think I am?”

It’s...not exactly what Steve was expecting. He was expecting a Sugar Daddy offer, or hell, even just sex-for-money, or _ something _in exchange for something else...but not a question about Bucky himself. He scrunches his nose up, and considers the query. Bucky doesn’t look that much older than Steve, though appearances could be deceiving these days, what with plastic surgery and people with more money than God. Steve watches Bucky for a moment, trying to decide.

He’s definitely past twenty-five, but not, Steve thinks, past thirty-five. It’s a nice range of ten years to work with, but narrowing it down further than that is difficult. There are no real grey hairs on Bucky’s head, and the wrinkles that Steve does see are just laugh lines. He’s really not great at guessing these sorts of things. He chews on his lip for a moment before just going with, “Um. Thirty...three?” 

“Hm. You’re..fairly close?” Bucky offers, with a slight grin. He waves a hand as he adds, “Try adding two hundred and thirty years, though.”

Steve blinks at him, not understanding. “What.”

“I was born in 1756,” Bucky says, like that’s not absolutely impossible. “I was around twenty when the Revolutionary War broke out. I died in the fight.”

“You’re insane,” Steve says, reaching behind him for the door handle.

“No, I’m not. I’m really, really not,” Bucky says, before reaching out a hand towards Steve, as if to stop him. In a soft voice, Bucky adds, “Don’t go, please? Not yet. I’m not…”

It’s only because of his voice that Steve drops his hand from the pull. Bucky’s voice is _ genuine _. He means whatever he says. “Get talking, then,” Steve says, pointing at Bucky’s chest.

“I’m two hundred and sixty three years old,” Bucky says, on a breath. He closes his eyes, and keeps talking. “I don’t have to breathe, I don’t have to sleep, and my heart doesn’t beat. I don’t get sick, nor do I age.” Bucky opens his eyes, and they meet Steve’s hard enough to pin him to his seat. “What do you think I am?”

Steve’s mind is reeling. He knows what it _sounds_ like Bucky is, but...but it can’t be true. Such creatures do not exist. Have never existed. They are simply _not_ _possible._

“Go ahead,” Bucky says, with the air of someone who has all day, and doesn’t mind waiting. “I know you know.”

“No, that’s not...you _ can’t _ be.”

“I am,” Bucky says, calmly. “I assure you, I am.”

“But _ how _?” Steve asks, in disbelief. 

Bucky barks out a laugh, and wrinkles his nose in an attractive sort of way. “I was turned as I lay dying in a medical tent. By a doctor, no less.”

“A doctor…” Steve says, glancing away from Bucky’s face to think about it. Bucky wanted to make him one of them. Wanted to _ turn _ him, wanted to take away all his ills and problems with one bite. Well, most of his problems, Steve realized. “Even if you turn me, if...if I _ let _you,” he says, quietly. Steve isn’t sure about it. His very first visceral reaction is NO in giant capital letters. “I’ll still be poor. I’ll still have to work two or more jobs, but it’ll just be harder because I can’t go in the sun, right?”

Bucky blinks at him, face expressionless. “I didn’t say anything about not going in the sun. That’s a myth.”

“_ You’re _ a myth,” Steve says, like he’s talking to an idiot. “How am I supposed to know what’s real and what isn’t!”

Bucky laughs, a true honest-to-God laugh that lights him up. His eyes _ sparkle_ . Steve watches for a moment, mesmerized. However beautiful Bucky is normally, he’s incandescent when he laughs. He looks _ alive _ like this, and Steve watches, only wanting more of it. “That’s fair, that’s fair,” Bucky says, after a moment. He smiles at Steve, and then explains, “We can go in the sun. It’s just...we’re a little more obvious in the light of day. We look dead, you see. Pale, no real color to our cheeks. It’s...well, we get looked at more.”

“Oh, so…”

“So we tend to avoid bright lights, where people give us a second glance, and then realize...well, then they realize we aren’t one of them,” Bucky says, with a half-hearted shrug. 

Steve sits quietly, digesting that bit of knowledge. He’s semi-watching Bucky, out of the corner of his eye. Bucky’s not even pretending to not watch Steve. He’s studying him, like he’s some fascinating thing and not a twenty-two year old starving college kid. Steve doesn’t know how he feels about that. He’s not that interesting, really. Steve’s thoughts drift over his life, and what a shit hole it’s been. How would...not being human help that? Would it help? Or is this something he should just walk away from, and never look back?

Five or so minutes pass, with neither of them talking. Finally, Steve gathers up the courage to ask, “And...and what about...food?”

Bucky lifts his eyes from where he’s been staring at a small exposed triangle of Steve’s collarbone. He blinks once, and then grimly nods. “It’s what you think. Blood.” Bucky pauses, tilting his head. “It doesn’t have to be human, though.”

Steve hums. “But…?”

“_ But _ it’s better if it is? Like…” Bucky clearly struggles to come up with something that Steve would understand. It takes him a solid thirty seconds of waffling before he bursts out with, “Humans can survive off of just potatoes and milk, right? But who wants to just eat potatoes for the rest of their life?”

Steve cocks his head at him. “So it’s...less…” He lets his sentence drift off. He’s not sure how he would have finished it, anyway. It hits him like a punch to the face -- Steve’s sharing a car with someone who’s killed people to survive. Fear dribbles down the back of his neck. He is in _ danger_, if he stays here much longer. 

Bucky points at him, like he got a quiz question correct. Of course _ he’s _ perfectly at ease. “Less, exactly. It’s _ less_ . You get less nutrients, less enjoyment out of it, and you feel a little sluggish. But it _ is _possible.”

“So you’ve killed people? To drink from them?” Steve asks, in a small voice. How fast can he get out of this car before Bucky would be on him?

Bucky goes still as a statue, hands wrapped around the steering wheel. It’s very obvious now, that he’s not human. No human can sit still like that, like they were frozen in time. How did Steve ever think he was human? That he was alive?

“I have killed people,” he says, in an almost worried voice. He hurries to continue with, “But not just to drink from them. That’s...you don’t have to kill.”

“But you did.”

Bucky immediately shakes his head. “No, no. _ No_, Steve.” He slices his hand through the air like he’s cutting off the topic. “I killed them because they were doing awful things to other people.”

It’s Steve’s turn to freeze. “What do you mean?”

“I’ve killed murderers. Rapists. Slave owners. People who abused power to hurt and control. No one society would miss,” Bucky says, voice quiet. “That’s...that’s the only time I use what I have to kill. Only...only when people deserve it. It’s never often. It’s never out of some misguided sense of purpose. It’s when I can help and no one else can.”

Steve blinks at him, thinking it over. “So you’re a...a…” Steve can’t quite bring himself to say the word, so he skips right over it. He shakes himself slightly before continuing, “You have a moral code.”

“Yes. And...and if I turn you, I hope you’d have one, too,” Bucky says, softly.

There’s no question about that. Steve’s had more black eyes than he can count due to his inability to walk away when someone else is in trouble. He’s sure his nose is permanently drifting to the left on account of him breaking it so often. But if he was stronger, if he was like Bucky...maybe he could help more. Help and not get hurt in return. Help and make sure the people responsible never hurt anyone else again.

“What about money?” Steve says, in an attempt to delay his choice. It’s sounding less and less like a death sentence, and more like something that could actually change his life for the better. 

“What about it?” Bucky asks, like someone who’s never had to worry about money in their entire life. He’s seems almost confused by the question.

“I don’t...have any.”

“I’m aware,” Bucky says, on half a laugh. “No, but I’d give you...hm. Say a million? To start? And then once we get you set up with the right investments, and in the right sorts of accounts, it’ll grow. And then you’ll have more money than you know what to do with.”

Steve chokes on nothing. “You’re just going to give me a million dollars.”

Bucky shrugs. “Why not? You’re going to let me turn you, right? I’ll have to stick around for a bit to teach you how to survive. You’ll need the money, and it’s not like that’s going to bankrupt me.”

“A million dollars isn’t going to bankrupt you,” Steve repeats, in a dead-sounding voice. “What a life you must lead.” He lets Bucky’s assumption slide. He’s still not 100% on board with being turned into something that isn’t human, but he’s close. He’s really close.

Bucky snorts, waving a hand around at the car. “You forget -- I’ve had two hundred and sixty three years to get where I am today. I wasn’t born this rich.”

Steve bobs his head once in acknowledgement. He supposes that’s true. Someone who’s been alive that long would have to be rich, especially if they knew their way around the stock market. He leans back in his seat, and tries to figure out a good reason to say no. 

The car drifts into silence as neither one of them speak up. Steve because he’s trying to hard to come up with a reason why this won’t work. Bucky, because he’s trying silently to sway Steve to his side. Maybe. Steve can’t read minds, but maybe that’s a perk that Bucky hasn’t brought up yet

Ten or so minutes pass, with Steve picking at the broken hem on his jacket. There’s some part of him that knows he’s being rude, but he can’t quite bring himself to care.

“What are you scared of?” Bucky asks, gently. “Really, Steve. Tell me.”

Steve lifts his head to look at him. Suddenly, it’s very clear what’s making him uncomfortable.

“That I won’t be me anymore.”

“Ah,” Bucky says, with an ounce of understanding. He waits a beat, and then adds, “I can promise you that won’t change.”

“How can you promise that?” It seems unavoidable that everything would change as soon as he wasn’t human anymore. His personality, his soul. Everything that makes him who he is. That would all go away as soon as he wasn’t Steven G. Rogers, human.

“Don’t you think I’d know?” Bucky asks, raising both eyebrows. He continues, talking a bit like a professor who’s studied something for years and years, and is enjoying teaching someone new. “The bite doesn’t change who you are. Just _ what _ you are.”

“But…” Steve whines, just a little, like the kid he used to be.

“No buts, Steve, really. It amplifies what you already are. I’ve seen nasty people get the bite. They just turn nastier.”

“So…”

“So I choose who I turn very carefully,” Bucky supplies, with a soft smile. “You earned this offer, through and through.”

Steve blinks at him, a little taken aback. The only way Bucky would know that was if… “You...you’ve been watching me for awhile, haven’t you?”

“I told you so, didn’t I?”

Steve frowns, turning his gaze towards the shiny buttons on the dashboard. Bucky _ did _ say, but Steve had interpreted that a little differently. “I thought you meant you’d been watching me _ tonight_.”

“No,” Bucky answers, shifting to try and catch Steve’s eye. “Two years.”

His mouth falls open. Someone...some _ creature _has been watching him for two whole years of his life and he had no idea. How could he have no idea? Hadn’t he felt it tonight? That sharp predatory gaze at the back of his neck? How had Bucky gotten away with this?

And how did Steve feel about it?

“Why now?” He asks, looking towards Bucky with curious eyes. If he’s been watching for two years, like he says he has, why now? What happened that made him make his move? Why had Bucky come to the decision that he couldn’t wait any longer?

Bucky inhales slightly, closing his eyes against Steve’s stare. It takes a minute, but when he speaks, his voice is a little gruffer. “You were dying,” he says, opening his eyes once more. They meet Steve’s, and pin him to his seat. “You were sick, remember?” Like Steve could forget his last round of bronchitis-turned-pneumonia. Bucky wasn’t exaggerating -- it really had almost killed him. The doctor’s had had a hard time getting the infection under control. For awhile, it seemed like no antibiotic would do the job, but finally, finally one had worked. It was two months ago now, and finally, his body is mostly recovered. The cough remains but it always does. 

Steve closes his eyes, and takes in a shaky breath. It sticks in his chest a little, a reminder of his recent illness, and all his other ailments. It’s an easy decision after that. 

“Okay,” he says, as soft as he can. He nods once. “Okay.”

***

Bucky takes him to his penthouse, with the promise that he’s only doing this if they’re both comfortable and safe. The car is as absurdly fast as Steve thought it would be -- the force of the car shoves him back into his seat the moment Bucky peels off. 

He drives recklessly, weaving in and out of traffic before squealing to a stop before an automated garage door. Steve watches, silent, as Bucky rolls down the window with a press of his finger and stares up at a camera. The door rumbles upwards a moment later, revealing an underground parking lot. 

They go down, down, down to a private section of the lot, pulling the car in between two equally expensive looking cars. Steve stretches his neck to look at everything else parked by them. From what he can see, every single car is black, sleek and worth more money than Steve cares to think about. 

“You like black cars, huh?” he asks, turning to grin at Bucky.

“It’s a problem,” Bucky admits, with a sparkle in his eye. He grabs the fob from a cupholder, and moves to get out of the car. Over his shoulder, he says, “I’ll show you all of them later, if you want.”

“How many do you have?” Steve asks, genuinely curious. He’s gathering his backpack up so he can sling it over his shoulder. A quick tug on the door handle, a little clumsy fumbling, and Steve is standing on concrete. He adjusts his ill-fitting clothing and then, only then, does he look up towards Bucky. In the faintly flickering fluorescent light of the parking garage, it’s laughably easy to see that Bucky is not quite human...or alive. His skin is a sickly shade of white, with undertones of yellow. Sharp, handsome features only seem to emphasize Bucky’s otherworldliness -- no one human could possibly look that perfect. Steve stares at him for a moment, briefly wondering what _ he’ll _look like after the bite.

“Thirty-six. Only twelve here, though,” Bucky answers, shutting the door on his side. He stretches towards the ceiling, and then lets his hands fall back down by his sides. He flashes a quick smile, and then leads Steve towards an elevator.

“You own thirty-six cars?” Steve asks, flummoxed.

“Yes,” Bucky says, flatly. “I like cars.”

“I can tell,” Steve says, eyes wide. Jeez. He doesn’t even own _ one _ car. Hell, he doesn’t even own a bike. He’s pretty sure he’s got an ancient skateboard somewhere under his bed, though.

Bucky laughs then, leaning forward to press the Up button. “You think I’m... extravagant?” 

“And then some,” Steve mutters, hurrying forward as soon as the doors slide open. Thankfully, the elevator is empty. Bucky presses a button labelled PH, and presses his thumb to a tiny rectangular scanner. The button flashes green, and the elevator doors close. Steve doesn’t feel them move, but judging by the rapidly changing numbers up by the ceiling, they’re on their way up.

“Well. I suppose I am, in some sense,” Bucky says, with a laugh. “I do own five houses. Paris, Rome, Stockholm, Tokyo, Madrid. And six penthouses across the States.”

“You rich bastard,” Steve says, feeling a flare of anger spark up inside him. Bucky is _ one _ man. Why on earth does he need that many places to live. Surely it can’t be worth it to keep all of those homes! It probably costs more money to keep them up and running then it would to just stay in a hotel. The waste! The absolute waste of keeping a property you don’t live in! It boggles Steve’s mind.

Bucky shrugs, and then offers, “I donate at least a quarter of a million dollars every few months, Steve. Homeless shelters, battered women's shelters, schools in less well off neighborhoods. Organizations that help those who need it. It evens out, I swear.”

That... softens the rapidly growing inferno inside him. “A quarter of a million?” Steve says, softly.

“Usually more, honestly,” Bucky admits, in a shy voice. He’s looking down at his shoes, avoiding eye contact. Steve gets the impression that if Bucky could blush, he would be.

Before either of them can say anything else, though, the elevator dings, and the doors open. 

The penthouse is not as gaudy as Steve thought it would be, really. It’s all smooth clean lines, cool colors, and masculine furniture. Nothing is gilded. There’s no ornate faux-Roman statue in the middle of a room, no huge painted portrait of Bucky over a fireplace. It’s an apartment. Sure, an expensive one, and one that overlooks a nice portion of the city, but it’s nothing outrageous. 

Steve takes a few steps in to the living room, moving to drag his fingertips over the arm of the couch. The fabric is grey and soft, something like velvet. There’s a wadded up fleece blanket shoved in one corner, a half-empty mug sitting crookedly on the table. A pair of loafers are laying haphazardly under the couch, like Bucky had kicked them off and left them there. This space is lived in, and for some reason, that makes Steve relax. It’s proof that Bucky is a person with a life, however much he might not actually have a pulse.

“Do you want the tour now or later?” Bucky asks, toeing his shoes off. A moment passes, and then he’s peeling himself out of his suit jacket. He moves into the room on socked feet, and tosses the blazer over the edge of the couch.

“Will...I be able to get the tour later?” Steve asks, unsure.

“Oh. Yeah. You’ll be fine,” Bucky says, with a shrug. “I guess I should tell you more, huh?”

Steve nods, still absently stroking the couch.

“Well, come on. Bedroom’s easiest for this,” Bucky says, nodding towards a hallway. He’s already moving in that direction, slowly starting on the buttons of his shirt as he goes.

“Not...not the bathroom?” Steve asks. “Won’t there be blood?”

Bucky peeks back around the corner with a smirk. His teeth look sharper. “No. I’m good at my job.”

A shudder slips down Steve’s spine. He waits one beat of his heart, and follows Bucky down the hallway. He peeks into each room briefly as they pass -- an office, a guest bedroom, and a home gym. They pass one closed door, which piques Steve’s curiosity but he keeps moving. 

Bucky’s bedroom as at the very end of the hall, golden light spilling out from the open door. Steve steps in, eyes wide.

The biggest bed Steve has ever seen in his entire life as at one end of the room, covered in enormous pillows and soft-looking satiny sheets. It’s unmade, a little rumpled and clearly laid in, if not _ slept _in. Everything is white, which seems almost cheeky to Steve. The walls of the room are a soft grey color, which only makes the bed stand out all the more. There’s a chaise lounge pushed up against one wall, a huge dresser on another. On the wall opposite the bed are a set of huge open double doors. A bathroom lies behind.

A thought drifts through his mind. Has Bucky brought women back here? Seduced them, had his way with them, and drank his fill? Or...or…_ men_? Is Bucky into men? Steve takes a step closer to the bed, as if that will reveal secrets.

“Steve?” Bucky says, interrupting Steve’s quickly snowballing thoughts. He steps out of the bathroom a moment later, wearing nothing but his suit pants and a white muscle tee that hides almost nothing. Steve can’t help but stare at the flat planes of Bucky’s stomach. The shirt is tight enough to hint at abs. 

“You alright?” Bucky asks, looking genuinely worried. 

“Um,” Steve says, in a squeaky sort of voice. “Nervous, I guess?”

“Eh, it’ll be fine,” Bucky says, with a smile. His teeth still look sharp. “Sit down on that, wouldya? I’ll explain.” He points at the chaise, turns to rummage through the dresser. He pulls out a black t-shirt, turns away, pulls off his muscle tee, and yanks on the black one. Steve watches all of this before hurrying to plop himself down on the chaise. 

“So,” Bucky starts, turning back to him. “The turning process is pretty easy. I bite you, drain you most of the way, and then you drink from me.”

Steve stares at him, mouth slightly open. “And I’m just supposed to believe that you aren’t just gonna drain me the whole way?”

Bucky’s face falls. “You still don’t trust me?”

“Well, put yourself in my shoes!” Steve says, voice rising. He’s only half-concerned. In reality, Steve is pretty sure Bucky is a decent man. There’s just part of him that likes the fight, likes being sure of something before diving in head first.

“Steve,” Bucky says, in a long-suffering tone. “I coulda killed you a million times already tonight. Why would I bring you back here -- to my _ home_ \-- to kill you?”

“I don’t know!” Steve says, throwing his arms up. 

Bucky crosses his arms over his chest, the t-shirt displaying muscles that had previously been hidden by his suit jacket. He looks stern, but not mean. Steve supposes he understands, all things considered. He has been kind of wishy-washy tonight. Bucky chews on his lip for a moment before asking, “Look -- do you want this or not, Steve?”

There’s no hesitation at all when Steve says, “Yes.”

“Okay, well, then you have to trust me.”

Steve makes a face, but nods. He asks the question that’s been bouncing around his skull since he first decided to accept to Bucky’s offer. “Will it hurt?”

Bucky blinks, probably at the rapid change in heart _ and _tone, but offers an answer. His face softens as he says, “When I first bite you, you’ll feel that. But immediately after, no. There’s a numbing agent in my saliva.”

While it’s relieving to hear the answer, Steve can’t quite help ribbing Bucky. Just a little. “Gross,” Steve says, with a little burst of laughter. 

Bucky wrinkles his nose, “It’s not _ gross_!”

“It’s a little gross.”

“You’re about to become something that drinks blood to survive, so why don’t you talk about gross then, huh?” Bucky says, raising both his eyebrows. 

“Oh fine,” Steve says, giving in with a little sigh. “Is there anything else I should know before I let you chomp on my neck?”

“Who said I was gonna bite your neck?” Bucky asks, with a crooked grin. Steve is struck once more by how outrageously handsome he is. That smile of his transforms his face. For a split second, Steve is desperate with the need to draw Bucky, like he is in this exact moment. Maybe he will. Later. Or..._ after_, he supposes.

“You aren’t?” Steve asks, more than a little surprised. “Where else would you bite me?”

“Your wrist,” Bucky says, laughing. “But I’ll bite you on your neck if you want…”

“Mmm. Wrist is fine,” Steve says, holding his right hand out towards Bucky.

“In a second,” Bucky says, waving away Steve’s arm. “A few things -- you’re going to change, physically. Not emotionally. Not in your personality. But your body is going to change.” Bucky pauses, but Steve doesn’t say anything. He wants to hear what’s next. “You’ll become the best you can be, physically. For you -- no offense -- it means you’ll probably get taller, and gain a lot more muscle weight.” Steve opens his mouth to object, but Bucky cuts him off. “No, look. I don’t mean it in a mean way! I really don’t. You’re good-looking how you are now. But once you _ change_, you’ll be…”

“You think I’m good-looking?” Steve says, shocked.

“Yes,” Bucky says, matter-of-fact, and keeps going. “You’ll look different, is all I mean. So don’t be surprised, okay?”

Steve is too busy trying to digest the fact that Bucky finds him attractive to catch the rest of what he said, but he nods. Why would anyone, _ anyone _ like Bucky even look at Steve in that way? It doesn’t make sense. Steve’s a scrawny, sickly little thing -- no one should think he was attractive. Not when he barely filled out his hand-me-down clothes. Definitely not when you could count every rib and vertebrae on him.

“And your senses are going to be stronger. Like a lot stronger,” Bucky says, with a smile. “You’ll see better, smell better, hear better. You’ll hear heart beats, smell fear.”

“_ That’s _ how you knew!” Steve interjects, pointing at Bucky. “That’s how you knew about my heart.”

Bucky nods, grinning. “Yeah, Steve. That’s how.” He moves across the room to stand in front of Steve on the chaise. He stares down at him for a moment, and then nods. “I think that’s it. You ready?”

Steve looks up at him, letting his eyes dart across Bucky’s face. From what he can tell, there’s no malice there. Only friendliness, an urge to be helpful. Bucky smiles as Steve watches, his teeth white and shiny. Steve nods.

“Do me a favor?” Bucky asks, gently. “Take your jacket off? I’ll have more room…”

Steve slips the ratty thing off his shoulder, and lets it hang on the back of the chaise. He’s left in a too-big maroon t-shirt. There’s a hole under one arm, but Steve hopes Bucky won’t notice. “You want me here?”

“There’s fine,” Bucky answers, with another smile. He adjusts his clothes, pulling his pants up before falling gracefully to his knees. Gently, Bucky takes Steve’s wrist in hand. Steve can feel his heart pounding against his ribs, over, and over, and over. His pulse races through his veins. His chest tightens in that old familiar fashion that means his asthma is rearing its ugly head. “Breathe, Steve,” Bucky whispers. “I pr -- I _ promise _ I won’t hurt you.”

Steve sucks in a breath that just sticks further in his chest. He coughs once, wincing. “Oh, just do it,” Steve says, wheezing. He adds a second later, “Please.”

Bucky narrows his eyes at him, but turns Steve’s arm over to reveal the pale white interior of his wrist. Purple-blue veins are stark against the thin skin there. They snake down his arm, disappearing around his elbow. Bucky bends over his arm, and presses his lips to his wrist, right below his hand. Steve tenses for a split second, but Bucky merely kisses him once. It sends a shiver down his spine.

“One more big breath, okay?” Bucky says, looking up at him through his lashes. His lips brush against Steve’s skin as he speaks. 

Steve takes a breath, shaky as it is.

Bucky watches him for a second, and then without warning, sinks his teeth into his wrist.

A sharp, blinding pain sears through Steve as Bucky’s teeth rip into his skin. Quickly, just as Bucky promised it would, the pain fades into a faintly warm feeling, slightly fuzzy and soft. He floats on it for a moment, enjoying the wave. Nothing hurts.

Steve watches as Bucky drinks from him, baffled. This is really happening. Bucky is real. What he is, what he’ll become...that’s real, too. Steve blinks slowly. He can’t feel his blood leaving his body. He doesn’t feel anything, really, other than a pleasant buzz. 

It takes him a moment to realize that he feels slightly drunk. 

Minutes pass, and his vision starts to swim. Bucky stays bent over his wrist, focused on his task. Steve watches his throat as he drinks, absently noting the movement of his muscles. He blinks sluggishly. The room goes a little dark around the edges. He hitches in a breath, gasping for oxygen. Bucky raises one long-fingered hand to squeeze once at the back of Steve’s calf -- reassurance. 

Bucky drinks, and drinks, and drinks.

By the time he pulls away, Steve is slumped over, barely breathing. Bucky moves away from Steve’s wrist as gently as he can, and wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand. “Steve, honey, c’mon, I need you to…” Bucky says, softly. Steve can almost hear him, but his words are faint echoes. “C’mon, just drink. I promise you’ll feel better.”

Something wet is pressed against his mouth. Steve latches on to it -- to _ Bucky _\-- like a starving man. 

Steve drinks, and slowly, so very slowly, everything fades out. 

There is nothing but him and Bucky. 

***

He wakes, sitting straight up off the chaise in one quick movement. Steve gasps for breath, and finds it doesn’t stick. It doesn’t do anything, really. There’s no pain, at all, and isn’t _ that _odd? He takes another breath, and another, and finds he’s stuck in some sort of feedback loop of big breaths, hyperventilating.

“Woah, hey, calm down,” Bucky says, immediately rushing into Steve’s vision. He sets both hands on Steve’s upper arms, holding him steady. He’s wearing loose clothes, at-home clothes. That black t-shirt from before, and light grey sweatpants. They look soft. Steve wants to touch them, so he does, running his fingers along Bucky’s knee. “You alright?” Bucky lowers himself even further, meeting Steve’s eyes. 

His eyes are very, very pretty. So is he. Just...gorgeous, really.

He must say that out loud because Bucky replies with, “Well, thanks bud, so are you, but are you _ okay_?”

Steve considers this. “I...I think so?” His voice sounds the same at least. Bucky smiles, and however beautiful Steve thought he was before now seemed to be tripled with his new eyesight. Bucky is _ devastating_.

“Wanna try and get up?” Bucky offers, letting Steve go long enough to pull himself up to his feet. He holds a hand out so Steve can leverage himself up off the chaise.

It becomes apparent very quickly that he is much taller than he had been. Steve’s eyes go wide as he realizes that he has to look _ down _ at Bucky now. “Oh,” he says, looking down at himself. The once-loose shirt is now stretched tight across his chest. He’s taller. Larger, in general really. 

Bucky whistles low as he looks up Steve’s new body. “So the bite..._ definitely _ changed you.”

“Is it bad?” Steve asks, a little worried. If this body is his for eternity, he doesn’t want to hate it.

“Uh. No, no it’s good. Real, um, good,” Bucky answers, eyes a little wild.

Steve flashes him a look, unsure, but steps into the bathroom to check for himself. A flick of his wrist turns the lights on, revealing a wall of floor to ceiling mirrors. His reflection stops him dead.

There is very little familiar about the man staring back at him in the mirror. The eyes, maybe. The color of hair, yes. But his jaw is more square, his neck thicker. He’s filled out more -- a body stretched to its greatest potential. This is what he could have looked like, had he been born healthy. Had he eaten well, had he been able to take care of himself. 

Steve runs a hand down his front, stretching his fingers over his now flat, well-muscled stomach.

Bucky appears in the mirror next to him, smiling. “Told you you’d change.”

Steve glances at him, still in shock. “You did, but I didn’t think...I didn’t think it’d be this _ much_.”

Bucky laughs, eyes crinkling shut. “Me either.” He pauses, considering. “I didn’t think you’d take to it quite this well. I thought you’d panic a little. Are you panicking?”

“No,” Steve says, shaking his head. Why would he panic about a new body that didn’t hurt? Prior to this, his existence had primarily just been pain. Pain when he breathed, pain when he walked, pain from coughing. It’s all gone now. Is this what life is like for normal people? For people who don’t get sick all the time? No wonder everyone else is so happy. Steve runs another hand over his chest, feeling at his new muscles. “Just...surprised, I guess.”

“Hey, me too,” Bucky says, with another grin. He pats Steve on the shoulder, and brushes past him to go back into the bedroom. “You wanna change into clothes that’ll fit? I’ve got some stuff you can borrow until we go shopping for you…”

“Um, sure,” Steve says, leaning towards Bucky as he passes. A whiff of something amazing hits his nose. He turns to follow it, like a cartoon floating after a pie. It takes a moment, but it hits him that the smell is _ Bucky_. Cedar, along with a faint clean mint, maybe sandalwood. Steve wants to follow it further, but roots himself to the tile floor. 

“Steve?” Bucky says, turning as he catches the movement. He gives him an odd look, one that Steve can’t quite place. “You alright?”

“Um,” he says, knowing that if he were still human, he’d be blushing. Steve turns away, pretending to study his own reflection some more. It’s odd, looking into a mirror and not recognizing what he sees there. He’ll get used to it, he knows he will, but that will take time. “I’m fine.”

“If you say so,” Bucky murmurs, halfway under his breath. Steve hears it clear as day, perking up with the realization that he can hear _ properly _ now. 

The decision to act runs through his head fast, and before he knows it, Steve is whipping around and reaching out to grab Bucky’s sleeve. Without meaning to, he yanks Bucky back into the bathroom by the fabric. Steve’s eyes go wide as he hears the sleeve start to rip -- he immediately lets go, but the damage is done. 

He is _ much _ stronger than what he used to be.

“I’m...oh god, I’m sorry, I didn’t...I didn’t think…” He’s babbling apologies at Bucky, who only gives him one long look before bursting into laughter.

“It’s okay, Steve! Really, it’s alright,” Bucky says, still giggling. He reaches out and runs his hands down Steve’s arms in what is a surprisingly calming gesture. Steve feels himself relax. “You’re going to act on instinct a lot, until you get used to your new body. Things will get broken -- it happens. Thankfully, I can afford to replace stuff.” Bucky smiles at him and once more, Steve is completely dazzled. He is so, so incredibly beautiful. Steve wants to rub up against him, to mark and claim him. He blinks at the impulse, and tries very hard not to act upon it. 

After a beat, Bucky says calmly, “Now -- what did you want?”

“Just that...you smell really good.” The words are out of his mouth and into the air before he can call them back. Steve slaps a hand over his face, embarrassed. So much for attempting to keep that secret.

There’s another burst of laughter, and so, so gently, Bucky tugs Steve’s hand away. He looks up at him, concern very evident on his face. “Why are you embarrassed?”

“Because that’s not something you _ say _ to someone!” Steve says, voice a little squeaky.

“Hmm,” Bucky says, eyes narrowing on Steve’s face. He’s studying him very intently, like he’s not quite sure how Steve will react to whatever he’s about to say. “What if I told you what you smelled like?”

Steve blinks at him. 

Bucky shrugs one shoulder, unbothered. Steve wishes he could be so cavalier. “You smell good to me, too. It’s one of the reasons I was drawn to you, you know, originally.”

Well, now _ that’s _interesting. Steve raises one eyebrow at him. “Okay, so...?” He lets his voice trail off into nothing.

Bucky smiles out of the corner of his mouth and then says, “Caramelized apples, sunshine, and clean sheets.” There’s a pause, and he flashes an even bigger grin before he says, “What do _ I _ smell like?”

“Cedar, sandalwood and mint,” Steve answers, without a pause. “It’s...uh. Good.” He offers Bucky a weird little smile, and then because he’s curious and because everything is _ so _ goddamn much now, he asks, “Why didn’t you just drink from me? If I smelled good? Why did you want to turn me?”

“Ah,” Bucky states, eyes going a little wide. “There’s. A reason, definitely a reason, but it’s maybe not...a conversation for the middle of a doorway?” He takes Steve by the elbow and lightly tugs him out of the bathroom and fully into the bedroom. He pauses, standing sort of awkwardly before shaking his head, mostly to himself. “Out to the living room?” Bucky says, nodding towards the hallway. 

Steve follows without complaint, not only because he’s curious but because Bucky is being slightly cagey. It’s a little odd, now that he’s not human, to see how easy it is to read someone else. Is he that easy to read? Is that how Bucky manipulated him tonight? _ Had _he actually been manipulated into making this choice? Steve tucks the thought away for later, too curious about what’s happening right now to concentrate on it. 

Bucky is _ nervous _ and Steve has no idea why.

When they’re in the living room, Bucky directs Steve to the couch, and sits beside him. 

“So, there’s some stuff I didn’t tell you,” Bucky says, deliberately not looking at Steve. He’s looking literally everywhere but him -- at the floor, at the embroidered pillows, at the modern art on the wall.

“I mean, I figured there was probably a lot you didn’t tell me,” Steve says, quiet.

Bucky winces at that. “But this...this is probably something I should have? Like...I…”

“Bucky, just get it out.” Steve’s stomach has twisted itself into a giant gordian knot. 

“What we are -- what I turned you into -- we have a really strong sense of smell, right? But there are...there are certain people that smell really, just amazingly good to us. And those people are the...well, they’re the ones we have potential with. Like...romantically? And you are that. For me. And, and if I smell...as good to you as you say...then. There’s...um..._ potential _.” Bucky pauses to take a huge breath that he doesn’t need. He blinks, and then looks at Steve, pleading as he continues, “But you were so sick all the time! Barely alive, whenever I saw you. It was killing me, watching you try so hard. I couldn’t...I didn’t want to lose you.”

Steve stares at him. 

“I know it… it doesn’t sound good. None of it does. I basically stalked you. You don’t know me at all, really, and I turned you to...see. And that’s...God, Steve. I’m trying so hard, here. I’m trying to be worth this, for you. But maybe I’m not? Maybe...I understand if you want to leave. You can leave, it’s...fine. I won’t stop you.”

Steve stares some more, so goddamn confused. A million emotions tumble through him. Outright fury, sadness, apprehension, anxiety, but above them all, a tiny shiny spark of something sits at the top of his chest. He might _ have _someone again. Someone that he won’t lose to sickness, or poverty or something they couldn’t control. Quietly, so very quietly, Steve asks, “So you picked me because I might be your match?”

Bucky winces again, covering his face with his hand before he nods. 

“And...and what does that mean?” Steve asks, knowing Bucky’s already explained a least a portion of it. He waves a hand between the two of them. “Realistically, what does that mean, for us?”

“Means there’s...something there. A possibility,” Bucky says, looking up at Steve, finally. Hope blooms on his face. Steve’s spark grows into a tiny flame in his chest.

“Okay,” Steve says, simply. He’s done overthinking things. Since he’s woken up, everything in him has been drawn towards Bucky. He’d been confused by it, been embarrassed by it, but if this is the reason? Why should he doubt?

“Okay?” Bucky echoes, unsure. 

“I’m not thrilled with how you...how you did this,” he motions towards himself. “But I believe you.” Steve smiles then, leaning towards Bucky a little. “We can see. I’m not jumping into your bed right this second. Not declaring us engaged or whatever. But I want -- I want to see.”

Bucky’s eyes sparkle as the words hit him. He smiles, one of those devastating ones that flip Steve’s stomach all around, and says softly, “We’ll take it slow.” He shifts on the couch slightly, pressing his shoulder into Steve’s. Bucky heaves a sigh of relief, and then adds, “We have all the time in the world.”


End file.
